I had a man named Calypso Pete.
He was big and he was strong
and he was very sweet.
You should have heard him
when he played in band.
He was the greatest man in all the land.
He didn't play the bongos, no, no
He didn't play maracas, no, no, no
But all the girls would gather round
to hear him go
I made a very happy home for him
And after work we'd sit and
have a drink of gin
There never was a man
who was as good as Pete
He played all night and
never missed a beat
He didn't play the bongos, no, no, no
He didn't play maracas, no, no, no
But he was very good at playing
fast or slow.
North or south, or east or west,
Music soothes the savage breast.
It's a law of nature
and I don't know why,
but nearly every man has
got a roving eye.
There was a woman
living down the street
who set her cap to catch
the eye of Pete.
She didn't want his bongos, no sirree.
She didn't want maracas, no siree.
The thing that she was after was
his specialty.
Evil woman al ways can make a
monkey out of man.
I wait in vain for Calypso Pete
until one night
I take a walk along the street.
From a certain woman's house
there comes to me a sound
of great familiarity.
Could it be the bongos?
No, no wrong.
Could it be maracas?
Also wrong.
To me it was a version
of love's old sweet song.
Stop the music!
Man, who two -time not so bright,
Jealous woman dynamite.
I open the door and then I fire a shot,
And much to my surprise
I find it hit the spot.
Now I'm alone and yet
it's nice to know
Calypso Pete is playing down below.
I never miss the bongos.
No, no, no.
I never miss maracas.
No, no, no.
But sometimes in the evening
When the lights are low
I kinda miss Calypso Pete